This story happened almost 40 years ago, when I was a young Chabad emissary in Richmond, Va. I had five children and very much wanted to have another. My youngest was already 7 years old.
One night, I had an appointment at the mikvah, and becauseWe quickly realized that the water wasn’t hot there was no designated attendant in those days, we went with a “buddy” who was going the same night. It was also our job to fill the mikvah and empty it.
On that particular evening, my buddy was the wife of another Richmond rabbi. As we began to fill the mikvah, we quickly realized that the water wasn’t hot. We filled it anyway, hoping that it would at least become lukewarm.
But it was not to be. I was the first to immerse, and as soon as I put my toe in, I realized that the water was freezing!
In general, I’m averse to cold water. I never go swimming unless it’s 90 degrees outside and the pool is in Miami. So I said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can go in.” My buddy tested the water and said, “You’re right, it’s freezing. I’m not going in either.”
Now I felt bad. Not only was I not going to fulfill the mitzvah that night, but I would be responsible for another woman not going either.
I started to recall all the stories I had heard about the Chabad women in Russia who dug holes in the freezing ice and snow to immerse themselves. I decided I had to do it and convinced myself that I would surely survive.
And I did!
My buddy decided that she was going to be brave as well, and we both walked out of the building feeling triumphant. In our small, small way, we had connected with the bravery of those incredible women in Russia.
We both forgot about the incident until nine months later when we met at our local hospital.
Both of us were pregnant, and both of us were in labor. We both had the same doctor, and both had C-sections.
In our minds, G‑d paid us back tenfold for our miniscule speck of self-sacrifice and bravery. I gave birth to my youngest child, a little girl. My friend had a baby boy.
Fast-forward 35 years. That little girl is now a mom of a 4-year-old, delivered in New York via C-section. She and her family moved to Richmond and when she was expecting her second child she looked for a doctor who would encourage her to have a regular delivery.
SheShe went from doctor to doctor; no one was willing to take the chance went from one doctor to another; no one was willing to take that chance. In desperation, she made an appointment with the same doctor I had used so many years ago. He was still practicing.
She went to see him and said, “Doctor, my name is Sarah Kranz Ciment, and you delivered me 35 years ago. But I’m sure you don’t remember.”
“Were you born on a Friday?” he asked her. She was incredulous. “Yes, I was. How can you possibly remember that?”
“I remember because I have a crystal-clear picture of your late father on the phone with the Lubavitcher Rebbe’s secretary just before Shabbat. He was asking the Rebbe for a blessing because your mother needed a C-section.”
That phone call to the Rebbe had clearly stayed with the doctor all these years. And, thank G‑d, she hasn’t had another C-section since.
One good decision made in an ice-cold mikvah more than three decades earlier had brought warmth, nachas and joy to two families.
Reprinted with permission from the N’shei Chabad Newsletter.
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